Tag: Fear

My best friend from college, Kelly, is a two-time cancer survivor. Breast cancer first struck her at the young age of 31. Kelly was a mom of two small boys and a new missionary in Africa when she discovered a lump. The diagnosis changed the course of her family’s lives, as they had to leave their overseas post and move back to the United States for Kelly’s treatment.

The dreaded disease returned fourteen years later. This time, Kelly faced a much more aggressive treatment regimen, including a mastectomy and chemotherapy. The side effects of chemo decimated her, both physically and emotionally.

“Maybe you’re the girl thinking you’ll end up alone.” These lyrics from “Someone Worth Dying For” by Mikeschair still make me cringe when I hear the song come on the radio. While the overall message of the tune ultimately has good intentions, it sadly puts singleness on a short list of worst-case scenarios.

I’ve seen an unhealthy fear of singleness drive many women (and some men) to a desperate pursuit of marriage. This was especially true when my peers were in their 20’s and 30’s. When I parted ways with a guy I was dating in college, I remember him gasping, ‘Will I EVER get married?” He was 21, and the next gal he dated said, “I do.” When I was 39, I received a note from a friend in her early thirties. In it she described her plan to lasso a man. Clearly forgetting my age, she stated emphatically: “I will NOT be 40 and single.” She was not.

I, on the other hand, breezed into my fourth decade decidedly unmarried. Surprisingly, I did not turn into a pumpkin, a reclusive cat-lady, or whatever other fate-worse-than death scenario people believe will happen if you don’t marry by a certain age. Now in my mid-fifties, I can testify that remaining single is nothing to be feared or avoided at all costs. That’s why it concerns me that there is still a subtle, yet prevailing attitude that singleness is an inferior destiny – or worse, abnormal. Continue reading “Happily Ever Single”→

It felt like the walls were closing in. A dim, recessed bulb cast a faint ray of light from the ceiling. The only other illumination was the eerie glow from the high-tech machine just used to perform a test on me. I was alone, lying on a paper-covered exam table. A white towel covered the suspect part of my body and a medical gown barely covered the rest.

The unsmiling technician had routinely performed the test without emotion, lending neither comfort nor revelation. “I’m going to get the doctor to discuss the findings,” was all she said as she closed the door behind her.

I knew the specialist could walk in and announce that I had a deadly disease. I had waited weeks for this test after an earlier exam revealed something suspicious. Only in my thirties, fear clutched at my throat as I tried to brace myself for what could be the worst news of my life. I instinctively began praying: “God—where are you? Please help me not to be afraid. Please help me feel your peace.” Fear’s grip didn’t loosen, and I felt utterly alone. I prayed with more determination. “God, you say that you will never leave or forsake us. Please take away this fear!” Still, the calming sense of peace I cried out for refused to permeate the sterile environment.

The doctor arrived, and though he delivered good news, joy escaped me. I was exhausted from feeling as if I had borne the stress alone. And I was hurt and confused because God had not responded the way I thought he should. For several days afterward my faith was shaken. But gradually I began to see that the rattling was for my own good. My concept of God was being jostled right out of its tiny box.

After being a Christian for many years, I thought I knew God. I thought I could predict how he would respond to my cries for help. My experience in the exam room reminded me that God is much bigger than my understanding. While I rest secure in His goodness, faithfulness, and grace, His ways will always be higher than mine. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord” (Isaiah 55:8). He is all-knowing and all-powerful, and does what he deems best, even if at the moment it might not feel comfortable or “safe.”

C.S. Lewis captured this aspect of God in his portrayal of Aslan, the character who represents Christ in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Mr. Beaver describes Aslan to the four children: “Aslan is a lion – the Lion, the great Lion.” “Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he – quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.” “That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs. Beaver; “if there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.” “Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy. “Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

As I grappled with the dual concepts of God’s goodness and his untamable nature, some of the peace I craved in that dark room showed up. I learned that I cannot approach God with a vending machine mentality (insert prayer, immediately receive the answer to my specifications). I now realize that even though God didn’t instantaneously take away my fear when I asked Him to, it didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Psalm 34:15 confirms that “The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are attentive to their cry.” He was there even when I couldn’t “feel” him. He was there even when he didn’t act the way I thought he should. He heard my cry for help—but in his wisdom he allowed me to experience a situation that stretched my faith. I learned the important lesson that I can never control God—only trust him.

In his book, “Knowing God,” J.I. Packer states, “We may be frankly bewildered at things that happen to us, but God knows exactly what he is doing and what he is after. Always, and in everything he is wise. We shall see that hereafter even where we never saw it here. Meanwhile, we ought not to hesitate to trust his wisdom even when he leaves us in the dark.”

Like he did with me, in that exam room. It was right where I needed to be.

It was a break-through moment. My dad and I had persevered for close to a year, gently trying to help Bailey overcome his abusive past. To that point Bailey had exhibited fear and oftentimes aggression if anyone other than me came too close. That Sunday dad arrived for his routine visit and sat down in his usual place on the couch. Bailey boldly jumped up next to him. Then, he did something he had never done before—he laid down with his front paws overlapping my dad’s leg, anticipating a treat. We rejoiced, as it was the first time Bailey had ever intentionally touched my dad.

Bailey’s miraculous moment –touching dad for the first time.

From that day on, Bailey only continued to improve. In the six years since his adoption, he has changed from an abuse-scarred animal into a loving, well-behaved, handsome fellow—in short, the perfect pooch for our family. Now when we go to my dad’s house for a visit, Bailey can’t wait to tear through the door and run straight for my dad, who is usually sitting in his recliner. Bailey takes a flying leap into his “granddad’s” lap and my father delightedly exclaims, “Well, hello, buddy!” When family visits from out of town, Bailey is in doggie-heaven. He makes the rounds, moving from lap to lap to receive the maximum number of tummy-rubs.

A moment of mutual adoration–Dad and his granddog

A few months ago Bailey was due for some booster vaccinations. A vet who had never seen him before came into the exam room to administer the shots. Opening the file, she saw the word “FEARBITER” highlighted at the top of the folder—a label that had remained on Bailey’s record since his first fateful visit to the clinic. “When should we muzzle him for his shots?” she asked. “I really don’t think that’s needed,” I replied. “Bailey is not the same dog he was when he first came out of the animal shelter.” The vet took my word for it and proceeded to inject Bailey in the scruff of his neck. He didn’t even flinch. Then my “boy” did something that made me burst with pride. He reached up and gave the vet a lick on the nose.

She immediately grabbed Bailey’s file, reached for her pen, and scribbled furiously. When she turned the folder so I could see it, a huge smile broke out across my face. “Fearbiter” was obliterated, and in its place a new word was written in large capital letters: KISSER. I couldn’t have been more proud than if I was a parent watching my child cross the stage at commencement. That moment officially commemorated Bailey’s transformation. And it reminded me that it was no accident that God led Bailey to choose me to be his “mom.”

Bailey the Kisser

Bailey’s story taught me many lessons. I learned that negative behavior often has hurt and fear at its core. More importantly, I witnessed the transforming power of persevering love, gentleness and kindness. I now realize that when God brings someone into my life that is exhibiting behavior that is difficult to be around, I need to be patient. The Creator isn’t finished with him or her yet—or with me. It’s possible that fear-biter may really be a kisser in disguise.

Our first visit to the vet was a disaster. Bailey trembled and huddled next to me in the exam room as we waited. The veterinarian entered and sat next to us on the padded bench. Though he spoke softly to try and calm Bailey, he was met with a growl and a flash of teeth every time he tried to reach for him. The vet opened Bailey’s fresh medical chart and wrote in capital letters at the top: “FEARBITER.” The veterinarian never was able to touch Bailey that day. I drove home disappointed and confused. Had I made the wrong decision in adopting this dog? What had I gotten myself into?

Over the next few weeks I saw the same pattern repeat itself. Any time someone got too close to Bailey, especially a man, he nipped in response. Things came to a head one day as we were walking through the neighborhood and two unleashed little dogs ran aggressively toward us. Not knowing what would happen, I scooped up Bailey to avoid a tussle. The dogs’ owner crossed the street to try and gather her wayward pets. As she came up behind me, Bailey transformed into a Tasmanian devil and wheeled around to try and bite her. In the process, he nicked my chin. . .the same chin he had kissed so tenderly at the animal shelter the day we met. Still carrying Bailey, I kept walking, my face bleeding. I could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. My heart was pounding, too, and breaking. This was not the type of dog I had wanted.

That day added to the evidence that Bailey must have been seriously abused before I got him. Only he (and God) knew what cruelties he had endured at the hand of his previous owner. It deeply angered me to think of how someone could mistreat such an innocent animal. I knew I had a decision to make—take him back to the shelter, or stick with him. I decided to commit to Bailey for the long haul, choosing to believe that at his core he was not a vicious dog. I had no idea how long the road would be, but I hoped that the power of persevering love would help him overcome his fears.

Over the next few months, I continued to give Bailey a safe home filled with gentleness. My dad joined the mission during his routine visit every Sunday afternoon. While Bailey trusted me, my dad was another story. I thought it might help if Bailey associated a man with good things, so I started having my father toss treats to Bailey every time he’d visit. Bailey would warily snatch the food, staying as far away from dad as he could. Gradually he started inching a little closer to grab the delicacy, but would never let dad touch him. A few months into the process, I added another element of placing Bailey on the couch between dad and me for brief periods, reassuring him the entire time. Bailey would stiffen up and press hard against me to remain as far away from dad as possible. Over time, I tried holding dad’s hand in mine and stroking Bailey’s back a few times. I could sense Bailey’s anxiety as he expected dad’s large hand to deliver pain instead of comfort.

Sometimes the progress seemed imperceptible, or would even take a step backwards. More than once dad said, “Do you think he’ll ever change?” Then one landmark day, eight months after adopting Bailey, something miraculous happened.